


where is my mind where

by cant



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Mental Illness, Multi, Other, Therapy, maybe idk i just love the idea, original concept, powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-30
Packaged: 2018-10-14 17:42:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10541382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cant/pseuds/cant
Summary: Rhys tries to work out if he's powerful or just crazy





	1. Wake Up

"It's not enough." 

"Try one more." 

Lightning shoots through the air, across my face, and I don't know what to do except scream. Loud, long, and drawn out, it keeps coming until I can't hear anything else. They're still talking, and the lightning has stopped, but I can't see them any more. Maybe it's for the best. The cord is eating into my neck, rubbing in a tense line across my throat, holding me hostage and sinking into bruised skin. 

"That's enough." 

I can breathe again, though my throat feels like it's going to tear itself up. I sit up and look around, but I'm in a dark room. Four walls. Nothing of note except a slim shaft of light coming through the underside of what must be a door. The air is cold. 

"No reaction. Again. I honestly don't think it's doing anything, David." 

"Ask him." 

I'm not even sure whether 'him' is me. Where am I, who am I, what I'm doing here and who exactly those voices are is a mystery for now, though I would appreciate the questions being answered. 

The door opens and for a second the light is too bright for my eyes, so I cover them with both hands, palms out. Whatever monsters are on the other side are not something for me to see. I don't want to see them. Don't make me look. 

"Rhys," comes a woman's voice, closer and closer until she's embracing me, and the light is bathing me in relief and warmth and it makes me want to cry. So I cry into her shirt, warm and cotton, clutching her motherly figure closer and closer until she's crying too. She strokes my hair, rocks with me, tells me it's all going to be okay. There will be no more lightning. No more tests. No more pain, Rhys. No more pain. 

"Excuse me." She moves out of the way, reluctantly letting go of me. The second she does, my mind wanders, as it normally does, to standing by and looking at myself, looking at the room objectively, standing with awkward feet and messy hair. It looks at me with the same blue eyes I use. I think it's disappointed. 

"Well, Mrs Jones, he appears to be functioning as normal." 

"As normal! Normal for him or for us? He's in pain, Doctor - look, what's he looking at now? Nothing." 

That's not true, and I'm a little hurt by that insinuation that I'm crazy. My happier self, the body-less self, shrugs at me. It's wearing that blue shirt that's just a little too small around the stomach. "Nothing," it says, the tiniest smirk on its face. I shrug back.

"Nothing indeed," I muse to myself, though I must have said it aloud because the woman, now standing to my left and looking more than a little concerned, bites her lip. A sign of worry, or frustration, perhaps. 

She exchanges a glance with the doctor and I stand up to have a look at the door, to try and see what's out there. Nothing much, just a corridor and a few benches. It looks clinical - maybe I'm in a hospital. 

"Why am I in hospital?" I ask; a reasonable question by any standards. 

Mrs Jones looks at me with big, worried eyes. "Don't you remember, sweetheart?" 

"No," I say brightly, a little sheepish - her look suggests that maybe I should remember. I feel kind of bad, now. I try to smile at her. Dissolve the tension, or something. 

Her expression turns ugly. The change is so sudden, I'm taken aback and find myself at the door again, back pressed against the handle - there is no handle. 

"You tried to hang yourself, you... I don't know how you did it. We came home and there you are, struggling- in front of the children." 

My first reaction is to laugh - perhaps insensitive, but I don't really know what to say. She looks so upset, distorted and ugly, though, it makes me wonder what I'm missing. It's not really a terribly funny joke, to be honest. I like a dark joke every now and then, as everyone does, but I don't really understand how this one's funny. My stringy grin fades. 

"The children, Rhys." 

Did I really try to do that? Really? Seems silly. I don't know why I'd do that. I'm not depressed, as far as I can remember; but then, of course, I don't really remember anything beyond waking up to the lightning. My mood is ruined a bit. 

"Children?" I ask, or maybe my other self does, though it's looking at her like it wants to put its hands down her throat and rip her apart from the inside out, slimy mulch and squelching insides spilling out. It doesn't do that, though. I try again. "Children?" 

She stares at me like she expects me to know 'children'. Who's children? Oh, right, children. 

Is that her issue? That I tried (apparently) to hang myself in front of 'the children', and not that I tried to hang myself? Maybe that's what all that cord around my neck nonsense was about. I feel a little better for knowing that. 

 

It's bright outside. Mrs Jones holds my hand as I shuffle along. I feel kind of lopsided, like I'm going to fall over if I let go of her. It feels so weird, like the ground is tilting, like the way you feel when you've just come off a boat and you feel as though part of you is still on it. I don't really like it. If I stand on my tip toes it helps, because I feel like I have more control over the watery ground. 

"She looks so angry." 

She does. I don't really understand what I've done, but I'm happy to hold on to her and just walk with her for now, before she starts getting angry at me. "Yeah," I sigh, taking apart the sweet she's given me with my teeth. It's a little bit tough. "I don't know. Want some?" 

"No, I'm okay," says my other body-out-of-body, waving a hand at me. It looks a bit upset to me, though I can't think why. 

"You're sure?" 

"Uh huh," it nods, but its bottom lip is quivering and it looks like it's about to burst into tears. I stop immediately in my tracks and Mrs Jones stops with me, looking more frustrated than before. My other self cries in front of me, and I have no idea what to do. It doesn't like to be touched so I stand back and can do nothing but stare. What do I do? It's rubbing at its red face and eyes with shaking fingers, and I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do. Panic threatens to rise in my throat, like vomit. Mrs Jones tugs on my hand and I nearly smack her away. 

"Rhys, come on. Leave it." 

"But- but- but I-" I begin, though no words want to spill out. 

"What happened to you, Rhys?" she snaps. She's standing in front of me now, in the way. It's annoying. "You were such a normal child." 

I don't remember being a child, to be completely honest. It never occurs to me to recall any of it. Sometimes I try to, because it's a normal thing, to have a childhood; nothing ever comes to me, no matter how hard I try, nor how hard I concentrate. It never comes to me. I don't know where to start. A million other thoughts come to me, like what I had for breakfast, or what I'm going to do tomorrow, or what I want to do, what I want to have done, what I want to be able to do, what I want to be able to have done, what I wanted to be able to do, what I would have wanted-

"Why doesn't he ever listen to me?" 

"Rhys. Rhys. RHYS." 

"No, not now." 

"What are they doing?" 

"Not now, not again." 

The ground is rising around me, or maybe I'm falling, though it's hard to tell when I'm moving in slow motion. It's almost fun, sinking and floating at the same time, though it's flipping my insides and I can hear voices echoing and a light acoustic guitar sound. It's soft. It feels comforting, like I'm going away somewhere and the pillow ground is rising to meet me. I'm a feather weight, like I've hit the top of a jump on a trampoline and my body's turning around.


	2. how does that make you feel?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys gets a bit worse thanks to therapy

“And how does that make you feel?”

I can’t say anything to that. I don’t know. I feel not much at all, now that my meds are being discontinued for some reason. It's like I don't know what to use to fill the little void those pills have left.

“Uh, frustrated,” I offer hopefully, wondering if that will sate his curiosity for a minute or two before he asks me again:

“And?”

       Frustrated. 

“Angry,” I say, the boiling water rising in my chest until it might well bubble over my lips. “It makes me angry.”

He looks at me like he doesn’t understand it. Yeah, I’m smiling, but I’m trying to be fucking polite; that, and I’m so mixed up and shaky a nervous, cringe worthy smile is all I can manage. It’s not coming out right, I can tell by his expression.

 

I’m running before I know it. I’m so confused but all I can see in front of me is dirt road and my feet in beaten up boots, breaking the rubble before me and kicking up dust, dust, dust. When did I get here, how did I get here and even why will have to wait to be answered, because I have no idea. The sun is in my eyes. 

 

I’m back in the chair, my centre of gravity a little off because I’ve been running - I nearly fall out, but I think it comes across like a nervous twitch. I right myself, a little disturbed, but find myself FRUSTRATED 

“Like- lightning, you know, like electricity, and what was I saying?” 

He looks at me for a few seconds, tapping his pen to his lips. “How this ‘god’ idea makes you feel.” 

“Oh,” I say, trying to be careful here. I don’t really know what that means. Oh. “Yeah, well... I don’t know what to tell you.” 

“You mentioned last session that you thought you were, and I quote: ‘god’.” 

“Well- I-” I’m looking around the room now, fidgeting, trying to think of a way to make it sound as sane as I possibly can. “I- I, ah, er, I can- I can move things.” 

          He can move things. It’s true. 

     He can move things. Move things. 

    I’ve seen it.                    “How do you mean?” 

“What?” 

         “How can you move things?” 

“With my mind,” I explain patiently, trying not to let the FRUSTRATION boil up any more. Bad things happen when I let it get to me. 

He pauses for a second to take some notes. The pen scratching on the paper makes me want to cringe. I know what he’s writing; delusions, illusions of grandeur, insanity. Connection to reality. Nobody can move things. 

I can. I've seen it. I was there when it happened. 

It was after an argument with someone. I don't even remember who it was - someone else in the facility, maybe; some other crazy. I went back into the hallway where all the bedrooms were, and I clearly remember the lamp in the room next to me hitting the wall on the other side. It flew out in front of me and smashed. 

He glitches                              into place with a buzz.  
        and clicks back 

“Have you been keeping up with the schedule I recommended?” he asks. He means well. 

I nod, but then I realise it’s a lie and I shake my head. It is somewhat true, though, so I nod again. “Yeah. No. Kind of. Well, I, uh, I had a... Ah... Friend who- she kind of... Confused the schedule, you know? Came in, and I got... Distracted.” I neglect the parts where we'd gone out and got high off our faces, but that part's unnecessary. 

He knows it’s bullshit. He’s looking at me like I’m fucking crazy. “You have to learn to deal with these distractions.” 

That doesn’t seem fair. What does he think I’m doing, twenty-four-seven? All the time, I’m trying to carry on and live without these distractions. Little niggling voices at my ear, always wanting my attention. 

“Rhys. It’s important that you remember to cater to your own basic needs. If you cannot wash yourself regularly and brush your hair, or-” 

“I have a girlfriend,” I interrupt, not wanting to talk about my greasy hair any more. It makes me feel disgusting, but maybe a little more real. 

“Rhys,” he says patiently, “if you don’t mind, I was still on the subject of your personal health. If you take care of yourself, you will see huge improvements in your mental state.” 

“Thanks,” I bite back, maybe a little rudely. “Sorry.” 

“No, it’s okay.” 

It’s not okay. It’s not even real. 

“What’s your girlfriend’s name?” 

“Do you- do you mind shutting that window?” I ask, trying my best to be polite. I smile at him. 

“Why?” he asks, like it’s some psychological fucking breakthrough. 

I can’t help but stare at him. “Because-” and THEN I realise that I have no idea, of course. I just feel like it’s too open. I want to be inside. 

Memories of last night keep popping into my head, intruding on what I’m trying to say. I’m struggling to stop the images of her face flooding me, and the feeling of being inside her, moving faster when she begs me to, from mingling and mixing in angry swirls with images of the vicious argument we’d had not an hour prior. We’d both said disgusting things, and then we had fucked to relieve the tension. 

It doesn’t feel good. I feel greasy, sickly. 

“Rhys?” 

Ice water over my head. “Huh?” 

He sighs, and the disappointment washes through me like a ghost just walked right through my body. A cold chill follows. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” 

“About what?” 

“About her. M- I don’t want to talk.” 

 

I’m running again, but this time there’s a rock in the way and it’s too late. I fall, but the ground seems to move further away, sliding downwards as I continue to follow. Further and further, it just keeps moving until I’m barely able to see it. My nose is running - no, it’s bleeding, and I’m still falling, but the ground is gone into the blue sky.


	3. clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhys makes mistakes same as everyone but worse

Where do you go  
When you're underneath the rainbow  
Write a letter to yourself  
Telling you you got to let go  
Take a walk outside  
The rain is never ending  
Leave your bucket and your spade  
It's time to stop pretending

We rise above the clouds  
We will rise above the clouds 

 

I like to paint. I like to make pictures and to create things; maybe they’re things I’ve seen, places I visited, or people I know. There’s something so calming about it. I like the feeling of paint on my hands and my shirt, and the motion of the brush on paper or canvas. Sometimes I paint in old books I’ve found because there’s nothing else. 

Turns out, however, I’ve painted in one of the books my girlfriend is using to study with. It looks so fucking old; can she really blame me? 

She left about ten minutes ago in a fit of rage (probably to get a new one) and I’m allowing myself the moment’s break to cry. 

The picture I was working on is torn up, my doing, and lying in pieces around me. I’m sitting on the floor somehow, legs drawn up into my chest, hands in my hair, heart acting like I’ve sprinted a marathon. 

There’s a knock at the door. 

“Go away,” I yell, my voice shaky. 

It opens instead, and I freeze. A cold chill washes over me, leaving goosebumps. What if it’s not real, like last time? And the time before that, when I opened the door and fell three storeys before waking up in bed with a headache? 

“Rhys,” someone calls; a female voice. 

“Go away, go away,” I breathe, hoping that if I just leave it alone, the voice will disappear. My vision goes dark as I press my hands to my ears and my eyes to my knees, pulling my shirt up so it covers my head. I don’t need this. I don’t. 

“How long have you been wearing that shirt, man? It’s been, like, a week.” 

“Two.” 

“Two.” 

“Oh,” she nods, rolling her eyes with a sigh. I look up. She’s... Real. It’s Prim. She looks excited, messy, choppy hair in her eyes and oversized jumper tucked half into her jeans. She looks a little like a mess, but not as much as I do. “Ok, well, get up. I scored huge.” 

“Wh- really?” I breathe, fear melting away instantly at the promise of sweet relief. 

“Uh huh,” she sighs, grinning at me as she grabs my hand and pulls me from the floor in one great heave. She’s not very big, but she’s a strong girl. Always has been, ever since we met. When did we meet? 

“Where’s your coat?” she asks, looking around at the mess and probably deciding not to say anything. I thank her silently for it. 

Thank you, thank you, Prim, Prim. Thank you, Prim. Thank you. Thank you, Prim; thank you. 

“Y- Uh, the- the kitchen,” I say vaguely.

She skips into the cramped kitchen and lets out a gasp. “The FUCK HAPPENED?” 

“What?” 

“RHYS?” 

I scramble to get into the kitchen, and it takes me a second to follow her gaze - the sink is full to the brim with food, and it’s rotting and dead. A fly or two gathers at the top of the stinking pile, an altar by the window with broken plates and glasses scattered like offerings. 

“I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. 

Prim stumbles over broken glass to close the window, probably so no more flies get in. “Well, I ain’t cleaning that up,” she says, which is reasonable, I think. I nod. “Let’s just go. That’s later’s problem.” 

The room is a little darker. I close the door. 

 

I don’t know what happened, but the next thing I know we’re passed out on the bed, twitching and breathing together. Colours swirl around me and her like smoke as we giggle at the ceiling, and hold hands, a window open on the left somewhere. Prim raises our hands and we stare at our intertwining fingers for a while. Maybe it’s an hour, maybe four. I don’t know, because I’m in bliss and I don’t care. 

“D’you ever think the voices are, like... Your, like, internal monologue or whatever?” Prim asks sagely, leaning up on one elbow to look at me. 

I shrug. “That’s what they say, y’know? I don’t know. They seem to me like...”

“What?” 

“This is going to sound crazy,” I say, leaning the same way to look her in her huge, dilated eyes. We’re so fucked. “I feel like- like they’re other people’s thoughts.” 

Prim stares at me. “Huh?” 

“Like- okay,” I breathe excitedly, probably just glad that someone’s listening. “I can’t- like, if you- if you asked me what you’re thinking right now I wouldn’t know. It’s, like; it’s jumbled. Like a million radio signals coming in. I’m like a god. I can hear everyone.” 

There’s a long pause where she raises an eyebrow at me and falls back onto the bed. 

“You’re startin’ to sound real crazy, you know that?” she observes. She’s right, but it’s not really crazy. We’re high, so anything sounds insane. 

“Shut up,” I sigh, falling forwards to lean over her, hands either side of her head. “Look, okay; I know conversations I- I shouldn’t know. I don’t- It just happens.” 

She stares at me for a while longer. What’s she thinking? I can’t tell. The usual whispering hum of voices is dulled and slurred with the chemicals in my system. 

So are my reactions. 

Prim’s lips catch mine before I can think to stop her, and suddenly we’re kissing. It’s warm in the room, and my lips are tingling the way they don’t when I’m kissing Her. Maybe it’s because I’m floating on another plane of existence, or maybe it’s because Prim is a very good kisser. She’s pushing me, hands in my hair, sliding down a little in the bed and gripping my waist with her thighs. 

This is wrong; bad, even, but I am in no state to rationalise this. 

              So it’s fine? 

It hasn’t felt this good in forever. I can’t remember a time when my girlfriend ever reached down and undid my jeans like this, let me grind on her like this or moaned into my mouth like this. Maybe it feels good because we can’t focus at all; we can’t hear or see anything; all I can do is listen to her moans and my own breathing and the hum of slurring, vibrating voices in the heat, and all I can feel is her hands in my hair and one is edging past my waistband, and everything feels so fucking good I could do it forever. 

I’m feeling Prim’s body under my hands, voices whispering that my girlfriend is coming home in a minute and I should stop, voices egging me on, voices telling me the most disgustingly depraved things to do and voices moaning in tandem with her, like we’re already fucking. 

“Shouldn’t be doing this, Rhys,” she breathes, hands all over me like she can’t get enough. My shirt’s in her hands, tugging, and her bra is under mine, my hair a mess and her legs pulling me harder onto her for a harder grind until I feel like I’m going to lose my mind. “Shouldn’t be doing this.” 

“I know,” I pant awkwardly against her lips, somehow unable to look her in the eye. 

      I do. 

There’s a flash, something red, and my body jerks backwards off hers until I’m at the end of the bed, breathless and whimpering like a kicked dog. I don’t know what it was, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. 

“Rhys?” she gasps, tugging down her skirt, sitting up, looking at me with that concern they always have. “You okay, sweetie?” 

“No,” I’m saying, standing up, almost falling off the edge of the bed, to pace, agitated, around the room. I can’t take it. Not a bad trip. Not another one. Not after the last time. “We- we should go- we should- my...” 

                “Rhys?” 

    “Rhys?”                  "Rhys?"

                 “Rhys.” 

  “Rhys, what the fuck are you doing?” 

        “Rhys, come back here and fuck me.” 

 “Rhys, touch me.” 

              “Rhys, put your big dick in me and let me ride you until I can’t walk. Fuck me.”

  “Rhys, you said you were off this shit.” 

                       SHUT UP.

“SHUT UP,” I scream, though I don’t hear it until it comes out, like an echo. “Shut up.” 

There are tears streaming down my cheeks. I can’t feel my hands and my chest is going numb, and my fingers are twitching, shaking violently. 

The room shakes and the other two stumble and clutch at things to keep themselves steady, but I’m okay. I just can’t see straight. It’s almost like that hot rush of anger, but I’m not angry at anyone - more at myself. What am I doing? 

  “Rhys, honey, just- calm down-” 

 “Rhys, the fuck are you-” 

It’s so LOUD. So loud. So, so loud.


	4. join me

I used to be a junkie. I’m fine now. I don’t think about it so much. But there was a time when it was all I could think about, and Prim and I would run around and steal whatever we could to pay for shit we didn’t need, but it was fun and I can’t think of any other way I’d have it.

She stares at me now, the high blowing out her pupils so she looks almost dead when she doesn’t move like this. “We could have fucked.”

I sigh - this again. She doesn’t let it go. She keeps reminding me about it, every time we’re together and even sometimes when we’re not in the same place. I don’t know how she does that one. 

“Could have,” I say quietly, avoiding looking at her. I wish she wouldn’t say things like that. It makes my brain do things, wander on to things I shouldn’t be thinking about because it only makes the voices get worse, and they start telling me things I shouldn’t know and things I don’t want to know. 

    _There is no pain, you are receding,_

A moment of silence passes where I think she might have passed out. There’s music playing. Something spacey and chilled out. It’s psychedelic, maybe, and obviously because we’re at Prim’s it’s playing on a beautiful vintage record player, little scratches and all. The ceiling has this disgusting optical illusion look to it, the kind I’ve never been able to look out without feeling like I’m going to get a headache, and it’s kind of drawing me in, like it’s getting closer. 

I look away, back to her, and she’s still staring at me. 

There’s something wrong. 

                             _A distant ship smoke on the horizon;_

She’s staring at me, pupils still blown out, but she’s not blinking; there’s something wrong. My heart pounds as panic washes through my entire body, dulled by the relaxant in my muscles and enhanced to painful levels by the stimulant in my head, making it spin and melt with worry. My hands are like hot plastic as I reach over to nudge her shoulder, ineffectual and pointless. 

I shoot upright, kneeling over her in a blind panic, adrenaline pumping through me as I touch her face, her lips, feeling the heat leave her cheeks and the vibrancy leave her eyes. Her lips are parted, and she’s looking through me, and I can hear her voice but her mouth won’t move. I’m crying before I know it; I only realise because there are tears dripping onto her cheeks and they’re not hers. 

            _You are only coming through in waves,_

I’m shaking, trying to call Prim’s name, but nothing is coming out and all I can do is mouth the word like it’s the only thing I know. She looks pale, and I don’t know what to do. 

                         _Your lips move, but I can’t hear what you’re saying._

She’s gone, and I know it, but I can’t react and I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do. She’s gone. Prim’s gone; my only friend, and she’s not there to hold my hand or tell me it’s okay or to calm me down when I’m struggling against a wall of noise. How could this happen? How does something like this happen? I can’t believe it - I don’t want to believe it. 

     "She deserved it.” 

“She didn’t,” I hear myself saying, over and over. “Prim. Prim, Prim, I don’t-” 

                          “Stop trying.” 

                    “Stop trying. She’s gone.” 

         “Stop trying.” 

I can’t stop trying I won’t stop I won’t stop trying for Prim she didn’t deserve it yes we almost cheated with each other and yes she felt more than I did but that doesn’t mean she deserves to die she only deserved the best 

-

She won’t stop talking to me. She won’t leave me alone; Prim’s voice echoes around me, no matter where I am, and she won’t leave me alone to just be at peace. I don’t know what to do. 

Prim keeps telling me to join her, but I don’t really want to. It’s to the point where I’m doing my usual rambling in a therapy session and she will appear at my ear, with a little kiss and a breath of air and tell me to _tell him._ I don’t want to, because I know what he’ll think. I’ll start to cry, and he’ll ask me what’s the matter and lean forwards with his pen forgotten, and what I’m thinking; I’ll tell him that I’m thinking about my friend Prim, and he’ll ask me about her like I’ve never brought it up before. 

        That’s when I realise I can see the future. 

It’s not quite entirely accurate, but I understand it. It’s _right_ and it makes sense to me, which is all that matters because nobody else can see what I see. I can see into the future, and he follows exactly what I thought he would do. I’m right. 

         The FUTURE is LOUD

         WON’T LEAVE ME ALONE 

         JOIN ME, JOIN ME

_I’m going to see Prim again._


	5. breathe in the air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rhys' internal monologue is just screaming

There’s a flash of light and then everything goes pitch black. I can hear my own breathing like it’s the only sound in the world, whimpers and little sighs leaking out of me like sludge as I try to move around. I’m a tiny dog, trapped in a cage I don’t know how to get out of, my back hunched and my legs pulled up close to my chest, though without the space I feel like it’s going to implode. 

My teeth are chattering, my hands quaking like the earth is moving underneath me, and I can feel the sides of the container pressing the air against my head and my eyes and the back of my neck. I’m being watched but I can’t see who it is, and the little yellow eyes are opening and closing around me in the dark. 

I’m going to throw up, I can feel it. It’s hurting me, pulling razors and strings of beads through my chest and my throat, touching the back of my mouth and pulling my jaw down. Fingers scrabble and scratch at my hair, but I don’t know if they’re mine because ants are filling my socks and moving up my trouser legs, scurrying and biting and itching, itching itching scratching- 

         “Rhys.” 

  “Rhys, honey, are you okay?” 

The box opens and I’m in the kitchen, the kitchen of our apartment, and it’s clean and bright and spacious, just the way she wanted, and I’m okay. 

“Baby, sweetheart, are you all right? Please, answer me. Do I- Do I have to phone an ambulance?” 

I breathe out, though it comes out shaky and thicker than smoke. I can see my breath in the air in front of me, like it’s polluted with thick black tar. Slowly, I shake my head as she runs her fingers through my hair. “I’m- I- I’m okay, I- I think- I-” 

“Sh,” she whispers, holding my head to her chest and catching my tears in her dress fabric. I think she’s crying too. I know it tears her up inside, seeing me like this. I can’t do anything about it. 

My hands edge back to my ears, just twitching and trying to drown out the voices with my palms, fingers sliding into my hair in slow motion as I try not to let the time slow down around me. I’m moving fast but my body is so slow, and I can’t hear her talking any more. I just want her to hold me and I want to lose myself in bed with her again. Just for now. 

      “Rhys? Honey?” Molly. 

  “Rhys? Otter, baby?” Not Molly? 

“Sweetie, look at me? You’re okay.” 

            “She’s gonna leave you.” 

                    “You know she’s going to leave you. She can’t stand you.” 

         “Such a pain. Such a BURDEN.” 

                BURDEN. ANNOYING. 

          BURDEN. 

Time stops, goes back, rewinds, moves forwards three times as fast, and she’s trying to get me off the floor, and I know what she’s thinking. I can feel it but I can’t move. 

“We never talk.” 

“I just feel like I’m putting in more than I’m getting with you.” 

“You’re always take, take, and you never give anything.” 

“Never.” 

“What kind of boyfriend are you? What’s the point?” 

“Just die already. Molly will be better off.” 

“Molly won’t miss you. Prim won’t miss you.” 

  “You know, there are millions, millions of people in the world.   
  And you know DON’T that you’re not going to make a fucking   
  dent on the population, or BOTHER their lives if you just die?   
  You’re not GETTING better. You’re ten times worse. You’re   
  going to get kicked UP out of college. Bye bye to that degree.” 

  “And then what do you do? No money, no job, no girlfriend, no   
  friends to speak of, considering what happened to ME that   
  bitch. You’re fucking dead, pal. Done. No point in living, really,   
  is there?” 

                  “Putting in more than I’m getting with you.” 

    “I can’t,” I whimper, standing against the counter suddenly, wishing for it all to just stop. “Molly, I- There’s no- I love you, but I just can’t- I can’t give you what you d- deserve when I can’t fucking HEAR MYSELF.” 

“Rhys? Don’t yell, please-” 

“SHUT UP.” 

“Stop fucking yelling.” 

“Sweetie, I’m

              I’m seeing black, red, colours I can’t describe, and I can’t see Molly any more. My one anchor. She’s obscured with black tar and I want to throw up again. 

“Sweetie, I’m sorry. Please, just calm down. Breathe.” 

                      BREATHE 

               “Breathe.” 

       “Fuckin’ breathe.” 

  I take a breath. I let it out. 

-

That night is spent in bed. Molly holds my hand, strokes my hair, but I can feel her crying next to me. Guilt is taking hold of my heart and squeezing it until I’m seeing double. My fingers shake, and there are bandages on my hands.


	6. sad stoner rock compilation 2 hours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rhys has a shower with his girlfriend

_Alien identities don't hide your pretty face from me,  
You awoke to the riddle of your life but no-one was there for you,  
Open to where you first began as a nicotine junkie, singing for a kodacam,  
Are you glad to see how far you've come?  
You're a wizard in a blizzard,  
A mystical machine gun!_

 

I know what they want. They want me to do something drastic, and then ill be sent away, bundled up in a straitjacket and carted off to the fucking loony bin. Molly won’t ever see me again. She knows, though, that I’m being watched. I’ve told her enough times. 

My eyes see too many things at once, so it’s easy for me to forget what I’ve told people. 

“Rhys, honey, there’s nothing here,” she says patiently, a little wobble in her voice. 

I shake my head. They’re there, and they’re listening. 

“Sweetie, please, you can’t lose another job. Just go to work. Try, okay, for me? Please?” 

There’s something on the wall behind her; I don’t know what it is, who it is, but it reminds me of Prim. A pair of eyes. Yellow. Watching. 

I’m as sick of it as Molly is, I know. I’m tired of feeling pressured, like I’m being watched every second of my life. I don’t know how that would affect someone normally, but it’s making me go slowly insane, and I’m getting desperate. My medication doesn’t seem to be working - I ask my therapist for a stronger dosage and he just goes off on me substituting, and then I need to take it regularly instead of when I need it. It makes me tired, and it makes me sick, and it’s slowly destroying my sex drive. My relationship with Molly is not what it used to be. 

Molly and I don’t really have sex much any more. We barely even argue. It’s to the point of passive aggression, where she will look at me and sigh and slowly slip further into that depression we both know is coming, like a black fog on the horizon. I know she doesn’t do it to hurt me, but it does, and I can’t help who I am. What I am. Whatever that is. 

I still feel like I’m a god. 

I can move things. I can feel things I shouldn’t be able to, and I can understand languages I’ve never heard. I know things I shouldn’t have ever known about. I don’t know why, and I have yet to know if I can control that, but I know things. 

Molly’s looking at me. I don’t know what to say. 

“Rhys,” she says softly, “I called in sick for you. Okay? You look terrible, honey. You need to take a shower and take your meds.” 

Easy. Two bullet points. I can do that. 

She helps me into the shower (though I don’t remember getting undressed or even walking to the bathroom) and goes to run her fingers through my hair - but she pauses, looks at me, and rests her head on my chest. 

“Do you even see me?” she asks, almost to herself. “I don’t want to be your carer. I want to be your girlfriend. I- I want you to not suffer any more.” 

I can’t bring myself to say anything, because my heart feels like it’s clawing its way into my throat, so I just hold her a little closer in the hot water. 

“What happened?” she asked suddenly. “At Prim’s. I know you guys... Were close.”

I look at the door. It’s nice in here, in a little secluded room, barely big enough for the two of us. With her arms around my waist, her head on my chest, I can pretend that everything’s fine and we’re a loving couple. I wonder if she still loves me. 

“She- she overdosed,” I say quietly. “It’s- It’s no big deal.” 

Maybe it is, because I’m crying. The sound of rushing, hissing water drowns out the silence, but I still feel it. I’m holding Molly closer, wishing I’d never let Prim score so big. Never give a junkie a big haul. It won’t end well. 

“It is, though,” Molly sighs, her nose resting against my neck, lips brushing my skin. It’s nice. “You guys... You were such good friends. I know she helped you through a lot. And- hey, don’t cry.” 

I can’t help it - I want to pretend it’s just water in my eyes, but I’m holding on to Molly and sobbing before I know it. 

Molly lets me cry it out until I’m all done and there’s nothing left in me. Her fingers run through my hair and wash me clean, and I have to admit it makes me feel better. I don’t shower a lot. It’s easy for me to get distracted and forget. 

“You still hearing those voices?” she asks me, combing conditioner through my hair and gently kissing my jaw, my lips, my neck, though I’m not sure I feel anything in it. 

I nod, suddenly exhausted. I don’t remember the last time I slept. I don’t remember the last time I lay down without being scared and feeling like I’ve been hounded into a corner. They’re still there. They’re still telling me I’m worthless, that Molly doesn’t love me, that I’m being watched and they’re going to get me. I also hear little whispers of ‘I love you’ and ‘be quiet, dear’ that I don’t understand. My therapist tells me to engage with them and to try and almost do a talking therapy with them myself, but it’s hard and they don’t always listen. 

“I’m so, so sorry, baby,” she says, sounding a little like she’s going to cry. Her hands are slowing on my skin. “It’s okay. I just wish - I just wish they’d leave you alone, you know?” 

_I want my boyfriend back._

I wonder, sometimes, whether I’ve changed permanently, or whether I was always like this. I know Molly and I fell in love when we were both younger, and I wasn’t such a low-life junkie, and the voices weren’t so bad. I was interesting, she’d said. I don’t know if she’d say that now. 

“What did Mrs Jones say?” 

I sigh heavily. “She thinks I need to get better therapy. I don’t know. Maybe I just need to try harder.” 

“That would be good,” Molly says, sounding a little happier. She turns off the shower and gives me a towel. 

We end up on the sofa in comfy pyjamas, watching a movie. She tries to kiss me but I’m not really in the mood, and though I know she’s disappointed I feel like she doesn’t really mind. I’m having a relatively good day. 

“Rhys, baby, don’t you ever wonder if you’re right? Everyone else is wrong?” 

I look up; Prim’s voice. 

“Mmh, what’s up, sweetie?” Molly mumbles, passed out on my chest. “Get some rest.” 

Prim won’t leave me alone. She’s speaking into my ear, whispering. I can feel it, but I can’t see her in the reflection off the TV. 

“Leave me alone,” I whisper, holding Molly a little tighter. “Leave me alone.” 

“You okay, honey? Sh,” Molly breathes, reaching up to stroke my cheek and bring me to look at her. “There’s nobody there.” 

She’s right, and that’s what makes me upset. There’s nobody there. Prim is long gone. She’s gone. 

“You’re right. Everyone else is wrong.  
Molly’s wrong. She just doesn’t see  
what you see, kid. She’ll never really   
get it, y’know? She only understands  
from her plane of _reality,_ from her  
mindset, man. Nobody gets it but us.”

Molly’s kissing me before I know it. Her slender fingers are in my hair, and she’s shifting up to sit on my lap. 

“When have we just... Done it? You know?” she asks, and I can feel nothing but desperation from her. She wants her Rhys back. She doesn’t know he’s long gone, dead with his best friend. “C’mon, honey, just this once.” 

I can feel Prim breathing down my neck, her hands on my body, touching my hair and my chest. “Yeah, _honey,_ just this once. Let me watch. It’s gonna be awesome.”


End file.
